


The Holly and the Oak

by Pelydryn



Series: All the ANGST [10]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Arthur Pendragon Returns, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Magic, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Hopeful Ending, Immortal Merlin, M/M, Mind Control, Minor Character Death, Post-Apocalypse, Pre-Apocalypse, Slavery, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-27
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-06-16 14:58:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15439617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pelydryn/pseuds/Pelydryn
Summary: “Though no man, no matter how great, can know his destiny, some lives have been foretold… Arthur is not just a king—he is the Once and Future King. Take heart, for when Albion's need is greatest, Arthur will rise again.”Merlin always thought that Kilgharrah had meant to be encouraging. He had held onto hope for Arthur's return long after his memory of the actual man faded away. If he had seen the dragon's words as the true threat they were—a prophecy foretelling the utter devastation of Albion and her people—Merlin would not have been so eager. He would have battled through all his endless days to make sure his King would never return.But destiny never had been kind to Merlin.Includes art byObsidianSerpent.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rawks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rawks/gifts).



> The gorgeous artwork in this story has been created by the super-talented [ObsidianSerpent](https://www.deviantart.com/obsidianserpent/gallery/). I have been SO lucky to work with her. Her Merlin art is posted [here](https://www.deviantart.com/obsidianserpent/gallery/?catpath=%2F&edit=0&q=Merlin). I highly recommend looking through all of it (and then showering her with well-deserved compliments). 
> 
> Thank you to all those who encouraged this story. There were many, and I'm very grateful. And Rawks—here's some angst for you. <3
> 
> I tried to minimize the need for warnings by sticking to canon-typical violence and events. However, canon contains a few things that might bother someone. Specific warnings for individual chapters will appear in that chapter's end notes. If you think I missed something, please let me know.

_Emrys is strong, sister. He will not break._

“Then I will make him break.”

_We must be cunning._

“I could send Niviane. She has not failed me before.”

_She must tread carefully. Emrys will be suspicious, will be on the lookout for tricks. He knows we will not take his refusals lightly. We need him._

“Niviane will know what to do.”

_She'll need help._

“I know just the thing.”

***

She came in the spring, when the first buds pushed their way through the detritus of winter. Tiny daffodil stems peeked from under mouldy leaves; droopy white snowdrops struggled to emerge from the layer of mud that covered everything, all that remained of that year's snowfall.

When the girl came, the sun shone brighter. The flowers stood straighter, and the wind turned warm and gentle. The ripples on the lake organized themselves into perfect rows of silver shimmers, and even Merlin's ramshackle cottage perked up, as if freed from an oppressive weight.

Merlin was not much concerned with the state of his home. It sufficed, and that was good enough for him. He spent most of his time outdoors, learning the ways of the sparrow and the snail. He spent long periods of time as an animal himself, discovering the wisdom of minnow and mouse. It helped to distract him from the ever-present tower on the island in the lake, a constant reminder of Merlin's worst failure.

But he would always return to his cottage, to spend time as a human, afraid that one day the wildness might carry him away, too far to make it back when Arthur finally returned.

Merlin was sitting in a wooden chair in his tiny porch when the girl came. He had been pondering whether he felt up to turning into a fish for a trip to the bottom of the lake to visit the old Leviathan that lived tucked up in the depths.

But the girl came, with her creamy skin, silky hair, and mesmerising eyes. Merlin instantly forgot all plans of turning into a fish, and indeed forgot his ability to transform entirely.

The Leviathan would wait for many years for the friend that never came back. She would die calling for Emrys to come and bless her final journey, but it would be for naught: she would die alone.

She reminded Merlin of a girl that he had once known, a girl he had failed, as he must fail everyone he grew close to. He wanted to give this girl everything to make up for his prior mistakes. She smiled sweetly and pulled her body close to his. She smelled of strawberries and sunshine, and Merlin completely lost his head. He could not have enough of her, had to be with her all the time.

And never once did he think it strange that he didn't know her name.


	2. Part One

The north wind howled in the darkness, forcing its way through the cracks in the cottage’s walls, raising the hairs on Merlin's neck. He sat by the fire, an old grey blanket wrapped round his shoulders, waiting. Always waiting.

The heater in the cottage had little chance of keeping up with the relentless cold of the brutal winter. Even so, he always left the dingy curtains on the front window open. The frigid air spilled into the room through the loose singles pane, but it was worth it to be able to see the lake outside. As much as possible, he had to keep an eye on the lake.

Sometimes when he stared out the window, ghostly figures floated over the water or glided along the shore. He wasn't sure how he knew, but they were angry with him. He'd close his eyes, wondering how to beg forgiveness for something he could not remember. When he opened his eyes, they were always gone.

Tonight all that was visible outside the window was the dim porch light that illuminated the snowflakes blowing horizontally across the landscape. There would be many drifts tomorrow, most likely rendering the way to town impassible. No one would be out till the ploughs cleared the road the next day.

Except—were those headlights coming towards the cottage? It was difficult to tell, with the blizzard reducing visibility to almost nothing. And so often he saw things that were not actually there…. He'd better check. Merlin got up and went to the window. Condensation had frozen into crystalline patterns over much of the glass. He wiped it off with the rag he left there for that purpose. (It was vital that he always be able to see out the window. What would happen if the thing he was waiting for happened, and he couldn't see it?)

The wind buffeted against the house, rattling the panes. He pressed his cheek against the frigid glass, lessening the incessant rattle. Looking out, he could see that it definitely was a vehicle struggling up the snow-covered lane.

When it passed in front of Merlin's tiny cottage, it paused a moment. It was an SUV, capable of traveling through the deep drifts. Merlin was certain it was going to stop, but as he began making mental preparations for impromptu visitors, wondering if he even had anything in the kitchen to offer them, it sped up and was lost in the storm. He couldn't remember ever seeing that SUV before; it certainly didn't belong to any of his few neighbours. Maybe the driver had taken a wrong turn in the poor visibility.

Merlin returned to his chair by the fire, glad that he didn't have to venture out. Snowy nights such as these reminded him of the dreams that plagued his nights, of a life he couldn't quite remember, of people he couldn't quite see, of creatures in caves and enemies round every corner. Sometimes there were dreams of an icy wasteland that felt like the beginning of an end. He wondered if those dreams were why he was haunted by the snow. Nothing good would ever come out of such horrid weather.

Although old, the armchair by the fireplace was surprisingly comfortable and conducive to sleep. Merlin must have drifted off because when he opened his eyes, the fire had burnt down to nothing. The room was frigid. Moonlight spilled in, lighting up the darkness. It took only two steps to reach the window to examine the snow-covered landscape. He wiped off the frozen condensation that had reaccumulated. Storm clouds scudded past the moon, but the sky had cleared up enough to allow some stars to peek through.

The lake had frozen over in the past week and was now covered with drifts of snow. On the isle, the tower loomed up through the white expense like a gravestone over the land of the dead. Merlin's eyes were always drawn to that tower, compulsively checking it for activity, for any sign that his wait might be over. Some days he forgot why he was waiting, what he was waiting for. During those times he figured he'd know it when he saw it. Other times, he thought he remembered, though right now it all seemed foggy. But through it all, he knew he had to keep an eye on the lake.

Merlin turned away from the window, planning to build up the fire and settle back into his chair. He rarely slept in his bed anymore. The bedroom didn't have a view of the lake. He always felt like he couldn't quite get enough air when he couldn't see the lake.

Besides, his head always seemed clearer after sleeping in the chair. For some reason, the nightmares were worse after a night spent in his bed. They would bleed over into his waking hours. He'd walk out to the forest and just know that he would find an impaled body… and there it was, a huddled mass of black cloth and blacker blood, somehow all his fault…. But no, that was just the dream. There weren't actually any bodies in the woods. He had to work to remember that.

As he added logs to the fire, he heard the distant sound of somebody shouting. Maybe that is what had woken him? He remembered the SUV from earlier and wondered if it had returned. Perhaps it had tried to regain the safety of the highway and had gotten stuck? He heard the voice shout again. Someone must need help. Merlin grabbed his coat and boots, then trudged out into the cold, ready to lend assistance.

The air outside was so chilled that it hurt to breathe. The moonlight bounced between the snow and the remaining clouds, lighting up the landscape in a surreal fashion. It looked like a faerie world, and Merlin shivered unaccountably at the thought. He stumbled through the snow out to the lane and looked in both directions, checking for headlights or any other sign of a stranded vehicle. But there was nothing to be seen.

The voice called again, louder this time. It was a man's voice. Merlin scoured the road carefully, searching for someone walking along it. His eyes then strayed back to the tower on the lake, as they so often did. He gazed for a long moment but was jerked out of his contemplation by the voice, sounding angrier and more urgent. It almost sounded like it was yelling . . . his name?

His eyes shifted from the tower down to the surface of the lake. There was a dark figure there, in the midst of the frozen plain of ice. Merlin wasn't sure how he had missed it. The figure was moving towards the shore, slowly pressing through the drifts of snow. Merlin stared, uncomprehending. Why would there be someone on the lake in this weather?

A moment later the voice called clearly through the crystal night. “Merlin!” Yes, that was what he had called himself, before. Who could possibly be calling for him? He had never spoken with any of the neighbours. They wouldn't know his name.

He arrived at the lake shore as the voice yelled again, sounding more exasperated. Merlin carefully stepped out onto the ice, listening as it creaked dangerously beneath his feet. The lake had only frozen over within the last week, and it wasn't that solid yet.

The figure on the ice turned towards him and sped up his steps. Merlin could see he was wearing strange metallic clothing. It reminded Merlin of his dreams, of men dressed in similar styles, fighting, screaming, dying….

Merlin shut his eyes abruptly. This was clearly one of the visions that sometimes escaped his dreams. None of those visions had ever spoken out loud before, preferring to stare at him accusingly. But he knew the truth.

When he opened his eyes, the figure was still there, closer than before, yelling his name. That was different. Usually the images would disappear as soon as he recognised them for what they were. Confused, Merlin took another step closer to the man but stopped when the ice under his feet creaked dangerously. He jumped back onto solid land. He needn't worry for the man on the ice anyway. He was just a vision, albeit a loud and persistent one.

The man yelled, “Merlin! It's Arthur!” just as a sharp crack rent the night air. Merlin knew that name—it suddenly seemed more familiar than his own. Arthur! It was Arthur that he was waiting for. That's right. He had waited a long time for that dollophead Arthur. This was great! Maybe now the ghosts would stop accusing him of things he didn't do.

He wanted to go tell Arthur the happy news, that the ghosts would finally disappear. But as he stepped towards him, the ice under Arthur's feet gave way. The sounds of ice breaking couldn't quite overcome the sound of Arthur's shocked yell as he disappeared into the lake.

***

“Arthur!” Merlin screamed, horrified, waiting for a head to resurface through the hole in the ice. But Arthur did not reappear. It was as if Merlin's nightmares had come to life right in front of him. He had a sudden and clear memory of another Arthur, long ago, bleeding, dying, lost to this very lake.

That would not happen again, not if Merlin could help it.

He felt an incredible fire welling up inside his very soul. Magic, he thought dully. He once had known all about magic. When had he forgotten?

The fire inside of him blasted out into the night, burning everything it came in contact with. The ice and snow turned instantly to steam, a sudden sauna in the midst of winter.

A head broke through the surface of the now-liquid lake and took a frantic gasp of air.

“Arthur!” Merlin yelled again. He remembered now how heavy the mail Arthur wore was, how it would cause him to sink, how Merlin had had to pull him out of this lake once before. . . . He ran into the water, surprised to find it as warm as a bath. Arthur struggled to remain afloat, his mail dragging him down relentlessly. Merlin feared he would not make it in time.

But hadn't he just remembered? Magic. He was magic. If he could banish winter, he could also rescue one bedraggled dollophead. It was hard for him to figure out what to do, being distracted by the constant litany of “don't die, don't die, I just found you, for godsake, don't die” running through his head. His heart beat painfully fast, his breath came in quick little pants, and sweat dripped down his forehead.

Merlin closed his eyes and willed the heat inside his body to finish the job it had started. It rushed out of him, plucked Arthur out of the depths of the lake, and dropped him next to Merlin in the shallows.

Merlin collapsed into the water in relief, finding that his legs didn't want to hold him up anymore. Arthur plopped down next to him, still panting for breath. It was surreal to be sitting in warm water, surrounded by a wintery landscape. It was even stranger to be sitting next to such a vivid hallucination. Because no matter what Merlin had thought a moment ago, there was no way that Arthur could be real. Merlin was meant to wait forever. It was penance for all his sins. That's what the visions told him. Not with words, of course, but he could tell what they were thinking anyway.

After a moment, Merlin began to wonder why he was sitting in the lake. Both the air and the water were quickly cooling, and he shivered. Time for a cup of tea by the fire. He stood up, rivulets of water pouring off him, and stepped towards his cottage. A hand gripped his leg and jerked him backwards.

“Wha—!” Merlin toppled over with a splash. He spluttered indignantly, trying to get the last bits of dirty water out of his mouth.

“Merlin!” The vision of Arthur glared at him. “Were you just going to leave me sitting in a lake?”

Merlin stared, not comprehending.

The figure yelled louder. “Merlin!” When he still didn't respond, the figure slapped him on the face.

“Ow!” Merlin yelled, placing a wet hand gingerly over the place he'd been slapped. “What’d you do that for?” How could a vision be solid enough to hurt him physically? He wanted to ask, but shock stilled his tongue.

“Were you just going to go off and leave me sitting in the water in the middle of nowhere? I knew you were a worthless servant, but that's ridiculous, even for you…. Where are we, anyway?”

That sounded familiar. He had been a worthless servant, hadn't he? The voices always told him this, so it must be true. The voices knew all his secrets, all his failings…

The man in the mail splashed water straight into his face. “Merlin!”

Merlin startled. He'd forgotten the man was still there. “What?”

“What is wrong with you? I really don't want to sit in a lake the rest of the night. Can't you get around to, you know, doing your job?”

“My job?” Merlin paused. “But my job is to serve Arthur. You're just a vision.”

The man stood up, put both arms round Merlin's torso and hauled him to his feet. “Does that seem like something that a vision can do?”

“Er… maybe not?”

“For godsake, Merlin, snap out of it and take me somewhere warm.”

Merlin shook his head, trying to clear out the cobwebs that proliferated constantly.

He took a few hesitant steps through the shallow water, suddenly aware of how loud the splashing sounded. The wind had died down, leaving everything deathly still, except for the two of them.

When he reached the shore, Merlin looked back, surprised to see the man still there. “Well, come on then.” He turned away and headed towards his cottage. The lakeside had turned to mud where the sudden thaw had melted the snow and unfrozen the earth. Merlin’s boots squelched loudly as he plodded through it. After a moment he heard another squelching sound. Startled, he looked back. The vision of Arthur was following him. How strange.

A short distance away, the bubble of magical warmth dissipated. The snow lay in drifts, untouched. As soon as Merlin stepped out of the bubble, he was hit with a frigid gust of wind. It tore through him, making his bones ache with the cold. Lake water still dripped from off of him; the water on his clothes stiffened into frozen crystals. He couldn't recall ever having been this cold before.

He ran as fast as he could through the thick snow. It wasn't very fast, but the effort warmed him. When he made it back to the cottage, he slammed the door behind him. The world was wild, this night, and he needed to shut it out.

Merlin rushed to the bathroom for a towel, stripped naked in front of the fire, and dried off. He wrapped himself in his grey blanket and curled back into his chair. Time to sleep.

A noise came from the kitchen. He wanted to dismiss it, but it repeated, louder. Though the visions never spoke to him, they sometimes attracted his attention by banging objects together. He'd learned that they didn't like to be ignored, so he usually went to check on them right away. Tonight, though, he was so cold and tired. He'd really prefer to go straight to sleep. But there was a banging, louder than before, making it impossible to sleep. He got up, reluctantly, with the blanket wrapped round him, and went to the kitchen.

A dark-skinned woman stood there, feet not quite on the floor. A golden crown shone atop her long hair, marking her a queen. She looked reproachful. Although she did not speak, he could clearly understand her message: _You failed him. You let him die. If you had just tried harder, I would have never had to rule alone. It is your fault. And now he has come back to you, and you leave him to freeze to death? This is how you repay your debt? I should never have trusted a faithless, lying traitor like you…._

Merlin reeled backwards as if he had been struck and fled to the fire, shaking. It wasn't real, it wasn't real… He added logs to the fire but still couldn't get warm.

There was another banging, this time coming from the door. A man yelled, “Open the damn door, Merlin! Let me in!”

Something about that voice spurred Merlin to action. He rushed across the room and threw the door open. A wet, large mass of a man pushed past him and went straight to the fire.

“I have to say that I'm extremely unimpressed by your welcoming committee. I've come back after being dead for over fifteen hundred years, and you leave me alone to freeze to death? Did you not cause enough problems in my last lifetime?”

Merlin closed the door after the man passed through it in an angry huff. He stared at the visitor, perplexed. The man was trying to remove his wet clothing, but was having a hard time of it. The red cape he wore was sodden and tangled around the rest of him. The mail shirt had several buckles that he couldn't seem to get undone.

“Are you just going to stare at me struggling? Is that funny to you? Hurry up, Merlin, get a move on!”

Merlin shook his head to clear out the cobwebs, then rushed over to the man. _Arthur. It's Arthur_. He’d been wrong so often before. But the man sounded like Arthur and spoke with authority, so Merlin got to work. He struggled with the fastenings, but finally managed. Arthur tutted impatiently.

“You'd think that in fifteen hundred years your skills might have improved. I see that was a ludicrous supposition. Can you do nothing right?”

Merlin said nothing. There was no point in arguing. It was all true.

He searched for extra clothing in the closet and handed the largest to Arthur. They both dressed in the chilly air. Then Merlin returned to his blanket in the chair by the fire. Before he managed to settle in, Arthur grabbed his upper arm and pulled him up.

“Didn’t you think I might be hungry? Haven't you any food to offer me?”

Merlin turned and looked into the face of the man holding him close. Arthur's deep blue eyes were flashing with anger, and his jaw was tensed. Merlin could see tiny bits of golden stubble sprouting from a strong chin. This vision was so real, so detailed.

He must have spent too long gazing, because Arthur shook him roughly. “Food, Merlin. Now!” Merlin turned to the kitchen, but Arthur still had ahold of his arm, twisting it behind him as he had turned away. Pain pierced through his shoulder, clearing his senses for a moment.

His chest boiled with an energy he had not felt for a long time. “Let go, you prat! Do you want your food or not?”

Arthur twisted the arm even further. “You speak to your king in this fashion?” Merlin couldn't see him, as he was pinned looking out towards the kitchen. But he could feel the muscles in the body that held him, hard with tension, vibrating as if on the verge of snapping his arm in two.

Yes, Merlin always had been too disrespectful to his king, hadn't he? No wonder Arthur so often put him in the stocks and the dungeons. He had been a failure then and was turning out to be just as much a failure now.

He gulped, and something deep inside rebelled, but he lowered his head and said, “No, sire.”

Arthur gave his arm one last pull before letting it go. “I expect better from you this time, Merlin. Now get me something to eat. I'm thirsty, too.”

Merlin's insides burned, but he nodded and went for the food. He didn't have much, but scrounged up some tinned noodles in sauce from the back of a cupboard. He brought that out on a chipped ceramic plate, along with a tea cup filled with cold water. (It was only cold because the water was practically frozen in the cottage’s pipes. In the summer it came from the tap lukewarm.)

Arthur sat in the chair in front of the fire. Merlin handed him the plate and was surprised when he took it. Usually visions weren't interested in food. Nor had they ever been this real.

Arthur wrinkled his nose at the offering. “What the hell is this?” Merlin was ready to apologise… what had he been thinking? He couldn't serve water to a king in a chipped tea cup. But his attention was distracted by the person standing behind Arthur.

It was a man, little more than a boy, really. He had dark curly hair, rosy cheeks, and icy eyes that looked straight into Merlin's heart and knew all his failings.

 _You failed me_ , the vision said. _You should have been my ally. Together. We could have restored magic together. He would have listened to us. But you didn't trust me! It's your fault that he died, your fault that I killed him. I destroyed him then, and I'll do it again. It's all your fault._

__The figure pulled a sword out from the shadows that cloaked its body. He held it up over Arthur's head.__

_I told you I would never forget, Emrys, and never forgive, and I will gladly destroy you both._

__The sword sliced down. Merlin screamed and sprinted towards them both. He had to place himself between the blade and his king, he had to get there, he couldn't fail again…_ _

__He dove towards the sword—and the figure vanished. Merlin smashed into Arthur at full speed, knocking him to the floor. The plate and cup went flying and shattered upon impact. Merlin landed on the folding tray table set next to the fire, knocking it to the floor._ _

__“Ow!” he howled as he landed on the small table, breaking the top tray off of the legs._ _

__“What the actual bloody hell? Are you crazy? You could have killed me!” Arthur yelled so loudly Merlin's ear drums rang even once it was quiet again._ _

__“There… There was a…” Merlin looked around in confusion. No one present but them. It had been a vision. Of course._ _

__“Have you nothing to say for yourself?”_ _

__And no, he didn't. He really, really didn't. Nothing made sense. Maybe this was all just a too-vivid dream; tomorrow everything would go back to normal._ _

__Arthur resettled in the chair— _Merlin's_ chair—so how was he supposed to sleep now? He reluctantly got up, ignoring Arthur's protests, and moved towards the bedroom. What did it matter if he slept in his bed? It's not like the visions could get any worse. They were already wilder than they had ever been. There was one sitting in his chair, even now, stuffing the remnants of smooshed pasta into his mouth. He must have salvaged some of it from the floor despite the earlier protestations about quality. At least the vision had given up talking to him._ _

__He went into the bedroom and reluctantly closed the door. It would be nice to leave it open to allow in the meagre warmth from the fire, but the vision in his chair was starting to spook him. Better to shut it out._ _

__He didn't bother changing into night clothes. It was too cold; he was too tired. There were multiple layers of blankets to climb under, though it never mattered how many he used: it was never warm enough anyway. He curled into a tight little ball and waited for the inevitable bad dreams to carry him away._ _


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to mk for looking over the story for me!

It was just Merlin and Arthur around a campfire, as it so often had been before. But this time—

This time Arthur was dying, and there wasn't anything Merlin could do about it. 

This time Arthur was dying, and it was all Merlin's fault.

This time, Arthur said, “Leave me,” and Merlin left, heartbroken.

***

Someone was shaking him awake. When he didn't move quickly enough, the blankets were ripped off the bed, allowing the chilly air to banish the slight amount of heat he had managed to stockpile. 

“Is this what you were doing, Merlin? While I was fighting at Camlann? Having a nice little lie in?”

Merlin opened his eyes. Weak sunlight filtered through the thin curtains, revealing an angry face glaring down at him. 

“Arthur?” Hadn't that just been a dream?

“I excused your behaviour last night because it seemed like you'd had a bit of a shock. But I see your laziness hasn't improved in all these years. Get up!” 

Arthur wasn't quite yelling. It was somehow worse than that. There was a tone of disappointment that seemed to condemn Merlin for all of his failings, and not just for staying in bed. 

He scrambled off the mattress saying, “Sorry, sorry!” Once on his feet, he looked to where Arthur stood, arms crossed, jaw tight, teeth clamped firmly together. The vein in his temple was pulsing visibly. 

“You're still here,” Merlin said dumbly. 

“Brilliant observation. Can't get anything past you.” 

“Oh. Er. Thank you.”

“That wasn't a compliment, you idiot. Now… don't you think it's, oh, I don't know… time for breakfast?” 

Merlin had a sudden clear memory of racing through the halls of a castle, hoping to get a breakfast tray to Arthur before he realised Merlin was late. Again. 

When had his mind become so clouded? How could he have forgotten so much about Arthur?

“Merlin! Food!” 

But this was familiar. He had always been a demanding prat. 

“Fine, prat. Hold your horses.”

“ _What_ did you call me?” Arthur's voice cut through the frigid air of the morning, warming Merlin thoroughly as shame turned his cheeks red. 

“A…” He was uncertain. Hadn't their relationship been like that? “A prat.”

“And you think that's an appropriate way to address your king?”

Merlin swallowed, but it didn't help to moisten his suddenly dry mouth. Hadn't they? It was all so long ago. 

“I… guess not?” It had felt right, but he couldn't trust his memories anymore. 

“That's right, it's not. Now get me some food.”

“Sorry, sire. Yes, sire. Right away.” He rushed from the room without bothering to find shoes; enduring cold feet was better than making Arthur wait any longer. Had Merlin ever been able to do anything right? 

There was noise coming from the front room, thumping, scratching, furniture scraping. Damn it. Merlin didn't have time for this. He needed to get breakfast.

 _Merlin…_

No. I don't have time for this. I'm not going to let Arthur down again. 

_Like the way you let me down? Everything I became was your fault._

He couldn't help it. The inaudible voice drew him away from the kitchen and into the front room. At first he noticed nothing except the frost-covered window. He hadn't wiped it recently and he couldn't see out to the lake. There was a momentary panic— _he had to watch! he had to watch the lake!_ —until he remembered that Arthur—Arthur, his king that he had been waiting for—was here. Merlin didn't have to wait anymore. 

_Merlin…_

He had to fully enter the room to see where the voice came from. There was a girl lying on the floor next to the grate. The fire had died away, so there was no reason for her to be there. 

She had long dark hair and wore an elegant green dress. There was an empty water skin in her hands. As he watched, she struggled to breathe, gasping for air. He ran to the fireplace, dropped to the floor, and pulled the dying girl into his arms. She struggled against him, but he wouldn't let go. He wouldn't let her die alone. 

_This is your doing, Merlin,_ she said in his mind. _You poisoned me. I was lost and confused. You were my friend, but instead of helping, you tried to kill me._

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I had no other choice. The Knights of Medhir were going to kill everyone.” He had not remembered the Knights until he saw the girl, but now they were emblazoned in his memory. 

_You should have helped me long before then. You should have confided in me. You should have been my friend._

He remembered this clearly, the day he'd tried to kill Morgana. The day he'd tried to kill his friend. And she was right. He hadn't confided in her. He hadn't truly helped her. They could have worked together from the beginning… if only he had trusted her. 

If only he hadn't failed everyone important to him. 

She faded away in his arms, leaving nothing but a whisper of an accusation. 

Someone lifted him off the floor and pressed him onto his feet. 

“What's wrong with you?” Arthur asked. 

Merlin shook his head. “I thought I saw someone… It doesn't matter.”

Arthur prodded him towards the kitchen. “Are you sure you're quite well? You seem even more addle-brained than you used to be.”

Merlin knew he wasn't well, knew there was something wrong, but Arthur was here, the king he had been waiting for, and he needed to be strong for him, help him out. 

How had he not even considered that? Arthur wouldn't be familiar with this modern world. And he must have returned for some important reason. Wasn't he supposed to come for a reason? Isn't that why Merlin had been waiting all these years?

Merlin scrounged around for food. He barely ate anymore; he couldn't remember the last time he had been truly hungry. There was some canned food and mouldy bread that he tossed in the bin; he had some ingredients for baking that he couldn't remember buying, it had been so long ago. He opened a tin of peaches and a box of stale crackers. It was not food for fit for a king. 

They'd have to go to town today, get food, new clothes for Arthur. He used to go fairly often. Hadn't he… had friends? There was a time when he hadn't just sat staring at the lake. There was a time when he had done more than wait. The memories were so clouded now. 

Arthur didn't complain too much about the quality of the food; or if he did, Merlin didn't notice, lost in his mind as he was, trying to think of how things used to be. 

“We’ll have to go to town today,” Merlin said while clearing up the remnants of the food. “I'll have to dig out the car. They're what people use instead of horses these—”

“I know what cars are,” Arthur said curtly. 

“You… you do?” 

“I'm not the idiot around here. I leave that job completely to you.”

“But… how?” 

There was no answer. Merlin might have asked again, but he didn't want to risk angering Arthur. 

The winter had gotten off to a severe start, much colder and snowier than any Merlin could remember before—not that his memory could be trusted well. He wasn't used to digging his car out. Since the first snow fell two weeks ago, he had left it buried, choosing to stare out the window instead of doing anything else. 

He fastened his coat and tied the green scarf around his throat carefully. There was nearly a foot of snow to clear from the drive and the car. Better get started. 

It was not long before Merlin was gasping for breath. He felt overheated from the effort even as his face was so cold he worried about frostbite. Since when had he become this pathetically weak? 

He had to stop and rest. The stone cottage next to him cast a shadow over the driveway, but bright sunlight beckoned from the road. He trudged through the snow to reach it and turned to examine his home. Smoke rose anemically from the chimney, seeming as powerless in the face of the cold as Merlin felt. He'd not always been so useless. Had he? A phrase came to mind, “useless toad of a servant.” Perhaps he always had been. 

Yesterday, though—yesterday he had saved Arthur when he fell through the ice. Saved him with magic. It had been instinctive: Arthur was in trouble and magic had jumped to the rescue. There had been a time in his life when Merlin had used magic for other things, too, not just for Arthur. Couldn't he do that again? 

He recalled the feeling of heat that had built up inside of him when Arthur had fallen through the ice. It was still there, in his chest, a tiny pulsing thing, alive but… not well. Somehow it had been beaten down into something pitiable, almost as if it were sick, perhaps dying. 

Despite the freezing temperature, the sunlight felt warm radiating against his wool coat. He closed his eyes against the glare and focused on the warmth. He sent it in to the tiny magical spark, trying to use the sun's energy to encourage it to grow. It billowed up like smoke from a roaring fire, and he directed it to warm his body, to infuse heat into his feet before they got frostbite, to thaw his ears before they fell off…

And it worked. The cold was chased from his body; warmth permeated his skin and muscles from head to toe. He hadn't been this thoroughly warm in ages. He was giddy with it, and a laugh burst from his mouth. When was the last time he had felt this free? 

Sunlight poured into him; laughter poured out. He spun around in circles, throwing his head back so that he looked up to the sky. Tree limbs passed by in a blur as he spun faster, faster, as fast as he could till he slipped on the icy snow and fell. That cracked him up even more, and he laughed until his guts ached. 

Eventually he calmed. It was good it was too snowy for most traffic since he was sitting in the road laughing like a lunatic. Only the partially snowed-over tracks from the lone SUV the previous night were visible. They reminded him of his own car and how hard it would be to get it into town. Perhaps they'd have to wait… But Arthur! Arthur was here. And Merlin wasn't ready. There wasn't food, there wasn't clothing; he really was the failure everyone said he was. 

He could fix this. The warmth in his chest still burned brightly, and it would be so easy to direct it at the snow-covered car, the drift-filled drive, the icy windshield. A glance of his eyes, a flick of his wrist, and heat shot out of him, shimmering like a mirage on hot tarmac, undulating like an ocean wave. 

The snow on the drive turned directly to steam, and loud hissing filled the no-longer-freezing air. The shimmery wave hit the car, and the snow and ice there also vaporized. The resulting steam was so thick that it completely obscured the car from view. The air was now as warm as a summer day, and Merlin delighted in it. He threw his coat to the ground, heedless of the slushy, muddy puddles in the street. It felt so good to breathe fresh air that wasn't trying to freeze him from the inside out. It was a sudden reprieve from a relentless assault. 

The steam around the car finally drifted away, revealing… a vehicle so rusty that Merlin couldn't tell what colour it had been. That… was strange. It hadn't been that long ago that he had last gone to town? He walked closer to examine the rusted-out car, but the heat was intense and growing stronger. He backed away quickly—and watched as the metal melted in front of his eyes. The shape of the car caved inwards like a balloon slowly deflating. The roof collapsed onto the seats, and soon all of it was sinking onto the ground and spreading out, a molten mass of former car. Merlin stared at it, dumfounded. 

An icy hand reached around from behind him and pressed against Merlin's heart. At that very moment, the heated power flowing from his chest was abruptly cut off. He hadn't realised that it had still been active. He knew the hand belonged to Arthur, of course—who else would dare touch him like that? But the unexpected contact set his heart pounding, thumping against his ribs. The hand pressed into the heartbeat, almost like a cage ensuring it didn't escape its confines. 

The air grew colder quickly. The molten car solidified into solid metal again, a lumpy mess of tires and seats draped over with a blanket of dull-colored metal. Though most of the snow had melted and evaporated, the ground had turned wet and started icing up again. 

And it felt to Merlin as if Arthur was holding his heart in the palm of his very icy hand. 

They stood quietly for a few minutes, just examining the scene before them. Then Arthur removed his hand and slapped Merlin upside the head with it. 

“What were you thinking, you idiot? You could have been killed!”

“Didn't know you cared,” Merlin muttered. It felt familiar, this sarcasm. Something about being outdoors seemed to help blow some of the cobwebs from his mind. He had a nagging thought that Arthur was… not quite as caring as he had been _before_. 

“Who else will get me some food in this godforsaken place?”

Something about that answer wasn't right. There was an echo of a different answer tickling his memory. Something like, “You're my only friend, and I couldn't bear to lose you.”

Arthur's hand had been icy and confining, but Merlin still relished the touch of another person. It had been so long… so very very long. When had he last touched someone else? For that matter, when had he last spoken to someone who was not Arthur?

Hadn't there been a girl once? Young and fresh, smelling like strawberries? Had she been the one? And how long ago had that been? It seemed recent and also so very long ago. 

“Look what you've done,” Arthur said, voice as cold as his hand. “How will we get to town now?”

Merlin stared at the ruined car, puzzled. How long had it been since he had driven it? For some reason he couldn't even remember the colour. 

“I'm not sure why an idiot like you was given such powerful magic. What good could ever come of it?”

Merlin frowned. Hadn't he… used magic decently well? It was so hard to remember. He'd used it for Arthur, right? Always for Arthur. _That_ he could remember. He needed to tell him so. 

“I used it for you, Arthur, always for you. Even when I thought you'd kill me for it. Everything I did was for you!”

“You say that everything was for me, but how could it be? How could it be for me if I had no say in it?”

What on earth could Arthur mean? Just because he didn't know about it didn't mean anything…

“Of course it was for you!” Merlin yelled, stepping away from Arthur and turning to face him. “It was all for you! I protected you and killed your enemies! I spoke out against magic, for you! I betrayed my principles”—his voice choked even as he said it—“to see you safe and happy.”

“But how could you know that's what I wanted? What was good for me?” Arthur's voice dripped with contempt. It fell like drops of poison into Merlin's heart. “No. Look how well that turned out! You did what you did because you are a cowardly fool. If you had confided in me and offered your magic in service to the crown, I might believe that you wanted what was best for me. But you did not. You were a fool, and it led to disaster.”

Merlin's eyes prickled with grief. He took a large gulp of air and held it for a dozen heartbeats to ward off the sobs threatening to overwhelm him. 

“If your magic was for serving me, as you say, you should have offered it to me. Not slunk around behind my back.”

Merlin was quickly losing the battle against the tears. His breath came in short, quick pants; his heart pounded against his ribcage even harder than before. At least Arthur's icy hand wasn't there to suffocate it anymore. 

Not that that made any sense. But when did anything ever make sense? Had Merlin ever been able to think clearly? Or had his mind always been such a muddle?

Maybe Arthur was right. Maybe he was a fool. Maybe he should have entrusted Arthur with his magic. 

“I— I'm sorry,” he gasped, not knowing anything else to say. “I'm so, so sorry!” And then he was running—slip-sliding falling—through the snow. He couldn't even look at the lake; the tower there rose up above the frozen waters, condemning him. _You failed Arthur. You failed him and he died. As punishment, you were meant to wait for him. Wait with the guilt and pain of your failure as your constant companion. Wait forever._

Merlin stumbled off into a wooded area, anything to get away from his failures. He had thought that if his waiting ever finished, if the one he was waiting for ever returned, he might be forgiven. He might be redeemed. 

Instead, the man he loved—for yes, he loved him with all his heart, with all his soul, with all his being—the man he loved hated him. 

He slowed down in a copse of trees, recently leaveless, revealing clumps of dark green holly. Some snow clung to their branches, but for the most part they were too skinny to provide a good resting place for the frozen crystals. There was a slight breeze, and the trees shivered together, looking as cold and miserable as Merlin felt. 

There was a crying sound, plaintive and sorrowful. It came from the far side of the copse. Merlin hurried through the deep snow to see who was there. Someone as distraught as Merlin. Not that he would be able to help; it had been made abundantly clear that he was useless. But maybe he could go get someone else who could. 

There was a tangled mass of thorns on the edge of the copse, and next to that sat a girl. She was pale but still beautiful, even with her dark hair as snarled as the thorn bush. Her eyes were such a deep, pure brown Merlin wanted to jump into them, despite—or maybe because of—the tears that pooled there. 

When she looked up at him, her mouth curved into a deeper frown. 

_You once said you loved me too_ , she said without words. _Do you not remember? How you swore you'd protect me, save me from the evil? And then we would run away together, live by the mountains, be peaceful, be happy._

Yes, yes, there once had been a girl. Was it this one? There was the one that smelled of strawberries; was this she? He had loved her so. But this one… was… a monster? Why was everything so fuzzy in his head?

_You said you loved me, but what good is your love? You still failed me; you still let me die. Probably did it on purpose so you could go back to that prince of yours. And they claimed I was the monster?_

No, no, it hadn't been like that, had it? He had a sudden memory of a winged black panther, stabbed to death—by Arthur. Had Merlin let it happen? He wouldn't! Not even if he hated the girl. 

_You fail everyone you get close to…_

_How many more will die because of you?_

Blood bloomed through the fabric of her ragged dress. The girl closed her eyes and faded away until Merlin was left alone with a snowy thornbush and a breaking heart. 

Freya. The name came into his head with sudden clarity. Once he had loved Freya. But she was right: he had failed her. Just as he failed everyone. 

The cold ate through his skin and into his bones. The memory of heat radiated away along with any warmth he might have possessed. He needed to get home before he froze into an icicle that didn't melt until spring. Death always evaded him, but there were ways to incapacitate him and make his life a living hell. 

_Isn't it already?_ a voice asked. Merlin quickly brushed it away. 

Arthur would come find him, anyway. Arthur wouldn't leave him. 

_He left you once before…_

Arthur had had no choice. He was grievously injured, and Merlin had been the one who failed. Arthur wouldn't have left him if he could help it. 

_You know he did other times too… When you cured Gwen in the Cauldron… when you were wounded in Ismere…_

“Shut up!” Merlin yelled. Wait… who was he even talking to? There was no one there. And no Arthur to bring him safely home again either. 

It was a slow, horrible journey back to his home. He was so cold that every step was agony. His body no longer shivered. He wrapped his arms around his torso and fiercely regretted taking his coat off earlier. Was it left in the muddy road? Would Arthur deign himself to pick it up so it wasn't run over by a car?

Merlin had run farther than he remembered. Twilight had settled over the land. It didn't seem like he had been gone nearly long enough for it to be evening. No wonder he was so cold. 

He'd been warmer earlier, back at the car… The magic had warmed him thoroughly. But the magic had been out of control. If Arthur hadn't come along, Merlin might have burnt the cottage down. Arthur was right. He was an idiot. And he certainly couldn't be trusted with his magic. 

Eventually he made it back home. Not only had he not gone to town today, he had destroyed his best method of getting there. It would be impossible to bike there with this much snow on the ground, and it was too far to walk. Damn it. He'd have to ring someone for assistance. Didn't he have plenty of friends? People who would be happy to help?

Why couldn't he remember any of their names? 

He’d worry about that tomorrow. For tonight all he wanted was to sit on his chair next to the fire and banish the cold from his bone marrow. 

The house was completely dark. The door had been left unlocked, luckily. The air temperature inside felt warm by comparison with the outdoor weather, but Merlin could tell that the fire hadn't been lit. The cottage heater was a poor substitute. 

He turned on the light in the front room to build the fire, only to reveal Arthur sleeping in his chair. Again. Merlin didn't want to risk his ire by waking him. The fire would have to wait until morning. 

His clothing was soaked through. In the absence of a fire, he jumped into the shower to warm up, but it went cold after five minutes. “Fuck!” he yelled, cursing his ineffective water heater. Damn. Hopefully he hadn't woken Arthur. 

He dried, threw on some nightclothes, and crawled into bed. His bones were still cold; the blood in his veins felt sluggish and on the verge of freezing. What did it matter? It's not like he could die anyway. 

The bedroom was as chilly and uninviting as the rest of the house. That room gave him the creeps, but there was no way he was sleeping on the floor tonight. He crawled under blankets that could never quite warm him and waited for the inevitable nightmares to claim him.


	4. Chapter 4

Merlin was hurrying, rushing the horse as fast as he could. They had to get to Avalon—he had to ask the Sidhe to save Arthur—they had to make it in time. And if the Sidhe refused, Merlin would blast every last one of them out of their lake. 

Saxons appeared, closing in like wolves to their prey. Merlin flung them away with a wave of his hand.

“You lied to me all this time.” Arthur's voice was an accusation and a conviction all at once. 

The world shifted. Arthur was on the ground, bleeding, dying. 

“If you had trusted me, this wouldn't have happened. This is your fault, Merlin, all your fault… You destroyed Albion… you destroyed me… you and your magic and your foolish decisions. I was the king… I should have made the decisions. This is”—Arthur’s body shriveled until all that was left were his skeletal remains, which stood and stepped towards Merlin— “ALL. YOUR. FAULT.” The skull stretched into a grotesque thing. Suddenly the skeleton jumped from the ground and flew straight at Merlin, screaming. The second that it hit—

Merlin woke up, panting desperately for air, eyes wet with tears. Just a dream, just a dream, it was just a dream. But he knew deep down that it was more than that. Those Saxons—they had been real. Arthur's accusations—also real. Merlin had lied the whole time. He had lied, and he had failed. Failed his king, failed his friends, failed everyone. 

It was still dark, but Merlin couldn't bear the idea of going back to sleep. Instead he went to the kitchen to make tea. He sat at the tiny red table with the chipped top and hunched over his drink, hoping to warm his face with its steam. But even the hands clutching the cup remained chilly. 

Icy cold fingers pressed onto his shoulder, pinching like claws. He yelped and jerked with fear. The hand pushed him into the seat. “Shh, Merlin, it's just me. I couldn't sleep either.”

Merlin turned to look up into Arthur's face. It was impossible to read. Hadn't he once recognised the emotions on that face better than the ones in his own heart? Or was that just another fabrication of his clouded mind? It was so hard to tell. 

“Come, Merlin. Why so glum? Aren’t you the least bit happy to see me?”

“Of course!” Merlin exclaimed. “I’ve been waiting for you. For so long!” On the contrast, it seemed that _Arthur_ wasn’t pleased to see Merlin. He'd certainly not acted like it. And why should he be? Merlin was the one who had lied to him, betrayed him, failed him. Of course Arthur wouldn't be glad to see him again. 

Deep sorrow tore through him. Sorrow and regret. “I'm… I'm so, so sorry,” Merlin said, “For everything. I… made a lot of mistakes, and you were the one that ended up paying for them.”

Merlin was crying. _Again_. He tensed, ready for Arthur to mock him, call him a girl's petticoat, something demeaning at least. But instead Arthur pulled him up to standing and reached his arms around Merlin's shaking body. Was Arthur… hugging him? 

Arthur squeezed him close, pressing Merlin's head gently onto his shoulder. With one arm Arthur stroked his back like he was fragile kitten; the other was in Merlin's hair, supporting the head pressed to his shoulder. 

This unexpected act of kindness was too much. Merlin couldn't hold back his feelings anymore. He let the sobs violently shake their way out of him. 

“It was hard for you, doing everything alone,” Arthur murmured so gently that Merlin's heart might break. “You didn't have to. I would have helped you.”

Merlin buried his face in Arthur's shirt—one of Merlin's old ones—trying to press away the tears. But they wouldn't stop. 

“I'm here now. And it's my job to make decisions. That's what it means to be king. I'm still your king, Merlin. I'm back now, and I won't leave you again. I'll always be here for you.”

Merlin clung to Arthur, arms wrapped around his broad back, squeezing as if he would never let go. 

He had to take several deep breaths before he could talk. “I… I missed you. So damn much. It hurt to breathe for want of you. But even if I stopped breathing, I kept living, always longing for you. Sometimes I was so lost I felt decapitated without you. I looked at the world with my eyes but couldn't see; I listened with ears but couldn't hear. I couldn't think without you…”

Even as he said this, a memory of something different danced at the edges of his awareness. The cold wind rushing past his wings as he soared with the eagles; icy water pressing in as he darted through leafy seaweed with the fish. Times when he had been fully alive. 

Arthur squeezed him closer, if possible. Then he backed away slightly so he could put both hands on the side of Merlin's head and pressed their foreheads together. 

“It's all right, Merlin. I'm here now. I'll take care of you.” 

Then Arthur was kissing him, strong and confident, delving into Merlin's mouth as if it were his for the taking. Which it was, of course. Hadn't everything of Merlin's always been for Arthur? 

Merlin kissed back desperately, certain that the moment he stopped it would all be over forever. 

Arthur pulled away much too soon. Merlin whined in despair. He needed Arthur so fucking much, and if Arthur was kissing him… maybe Arthur actually did care for him, maybe he would stay, maybe Merlin wouldn't have to be alone anymore. 

“Arthur…” he moaned, “please…”

But Arthur stepped back abruptly, away from him. The kitchen was so tiny that he bumped into the refrigerator. 

“I love you, Merlin. But I can't trust you. You lied to me the entire time I knew you. You lied and betrayed me. I can't forget that.”

Merlin grabbed his hair in frustration. “Everything I did was for you, Arthur! Everything I am is yours!”

“I can't believe you,” Arthur said sharply, words cutting through Merlin's heart like a dirty, dull knife. Then he turned away and left the kitchen. As Merlin stared blankly at the place Arthur had been, he heard Arthur rustling around in the coat closet, looking for a coat. He wasn't leaving, was he? He couldn't leave! He had promised to take care of Merlin. Merlin shook off his paralysis and rushed from the kitchen just in time to see Arthur exit the front door. He was wrapped in Merlin's coat, still muddy from its time in the slushy road. 

The sight cut all the energy to his body, and he collapsed to the floor like a puppet without strings. 

_I have to fix this, I have to fix this. I can't live without him. I have to get him and show him and make him understand._

He'd wasted time, like the idiot he was. There was no way he could get through the snow without his boots. Quick, quick, he had to find them so he could find Arthur. He had to, he had to, he couldn't bear it otherwise… Without Arthur, he was less than nothing. Without Arthur— No, he couldn't even bear to consider it. 

He couldn't find his boots anywhere. Had Arthur taken them along with Merlin’s coat? Nor could he find the boots Arthur had the night he came from the lake wearing the same outfit he had been buried in. Was he purposely making it impossible for Merlin to follow? But that was ridiculous. 

He had an old pair of trainers somewhere. Damn it, where were those? Merlin's heart beat fast and loud. Think, think, where would they be? 

He pulled at a dim memory, yanking it from the tangled recesses of his mind: under the bed. This bedroom had felt so wrong for so long that he forgot that he had ever used it for normal things. _Run, run, faster, go faster, go faster!_

When he fell to his knees next to his bed, a wave of nausea surged through his body, making him gag on his saliva. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, willing the bile in his stomach to stay put. Then he reached into the dark space under the bed, feeling for his shoes. What he found was… not expected. Instead of dust, something slimy was pooled on the wooden floor. It clung to his fingers, and he yanked his hand back. 

There was a black, tarry substance on his fingers, sticky like honey. He wiped it on a blanket, leaving a dark smear, but it didn't come off. 

It almost seemed to sink into his skin… were his veins turning black? It stung, it burned… No, no, that was just… Shoes… Where were… Arthur… gotta go…

A scream cut through the quiet of the night. Was it right outside his window? Fuck, was someone dying? Was it Arthur? 

The jolt of panic that hit Merlin literally caused him to jump into the air. Then he was running, sprinting, flying to the door to the frigid outdoors, bare feet be damned. He tore around the house to the side facing the lake. The tower on the island loomed black against the starry night, a stark contrast to the expansive white of the iced-over water and the snow-covered trees blanketing the far hills. 

There was a person lying in the snow-covered garden, a person who was bleeding, moaning, dying. It wasn't Arthur. Moonlight revealed tangled brown hair and a thick beard. The man wore heavy brown clothing, but even so, the blood on his abdomen was evident, almost as tarry dark as the sludge still burning into Merlin's fingers.

Merlin ripped at the clothing, uncovering the wound. Shit, shit, he needed an ambulance… He was about to run back to the house when the man spoke. 

“My son. There is nothing you can do to help me.” Merlin’s eyes shot to the face… and there was Balinor. His father. Gods, it was his father. 

“I died because of you, Merlin. I died because you didn't trust Arthur. This is all your fault…”

The dying man groaned and fell still. Merlin cried, screamed, begged. He summoned up his almost-dormant magic and forced it into his father's body. But he lay as motionless as the day Merlin had first failed him. 

_You think magic would save him now? When you refused to use it the first time? You needed so badly to protect your secret that you let your father die. You failed to trust your king, and look what it got you. You are evil, Merlin, evil… You failed me, and I will never forgive you._

Merlin looked around for the vision that must be there, speaking into his head, but there was none. He turned back to look at his father, and the corpse faded away. Soon all that was left was a blood-stained indentation in the snow where his father had lain. 

Merlin shook so violently his bones might fly apart. He gasped for air, trying desperately to breathe. Tears poured down his face, and his nose was a snotty mess. He tried to calm himself down, but it was so hard…

A vision, a vision, it had just been a vision. Never had a vision been so strong. Never had a vision spoken to him out loud before. It wasn't real, it wasn't—but all it had said was true: Merlin had sacrificed his father for his secret. Because he hadn't trusted Arthur. He had killed him. He was evil, just as his father said…

He sat there, in the snow, sobbing and shaking for hours. Time passed strangely, though twilight eventually tinged the night sky, first with bruises, then with blood. 

Arthur returned with the dawn, hair as golden and glorious as the sunrise. Merlin heard boots crunching in the snow. It was nearly impossible to pry his eyes open, the lids were so swollen from crying, but he cracked them to see Arthur, wearing Merlin's coat and boots, tromping towards him. He was too frozen and too miserable to do anything more than look. 

“Merlin. You idiot. Why are you sitting in the snow? Come, let's go inside.” 

But Merlin wouldn't—couldn't—move. Maybe he couldn't die, but it would be best for everyone if he stayed here forever, frozen through, body, heart, and soul. 

He closed his eyes. They were too raw to keep open, too used to darkness to look upon the light of the day or Arthur's brilliance. 

Arms picked him up and hung him over a shoulder. The touch was like fire against his frozen skin, even through the protection of his thin clothing. His muscles cramped terribly as they were forced into new positions, and he yelled at the shock of it. 

“Shut up, Merlin. I'm just saving your life. You could at least pretend to be grateful.”

The comment stung. Why was Arthur trying to keep him alive? It's not like Merlin could die, of course, but maybe Arthur didn't know that. Why would he want to save the life of someone who had failed him so utterly?

At some point Merlin was dumped onto a wooden floor. He heard the crackling of a fire close by, but felt no heat. He was so frozen he might never feel anything ever again. 

Someone muttered, “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” incessantly. It took awhile to realise it was him. “I’m sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry.”

“You should have trusted me, Merlin. You should have trusted in me as I always trusted in you.”

“I do! I do trust you! You have to believe me.”

“How can I? After all the terrible things you've done.”

“All I am is yours! Always has been, always will be!”

“Swear it.”

Merlin paused before saying, “I swear it. All that I am is yours.”

Arthur scoffed. “Not that way, you idiot. Swear it with your magic. Swear that you are mine, fully and completely. Swear to always obey me as your king and master. Swear that your magic is only for me. Swear it and bind it with your magic. And then I will believe you. Then I can forgive you, absolve you of your sins. I can help you move forward, Merlin. I can ease your pain. Let me. Swear yourself to me, and I will make it all better. Swear yourself to me, and I will take care of you.”

Yes, yes, of course. Everything that was Merlin's was Arthur's. His magic was for him, his heart, his mind, his soul, and his body. If it would grant even the tiniest bit of peace, he would bind himself to Arthur, gladly. It would just formalize what was already the truth. 

The magic within responded to his fervent desire. It heated him thoroughly as it frothed through his blood. He felt feverish with it, so eager to prove his loyalty, so desperate to receive absolution. He was on his knees, head bowed, hands crossed over his heart. The words of a spell were ripped out of him as if by a giant hook grappling at his innards and yanking them out ruthlessly. 

What the words were, he couldn't say. All he was aware of was the rising tide of passion and pain climaxing in screams when he felt his very soul cross the chasm between them and bind itself to Arthur's will. 

Merlin collapsed to the floor panting, sticky with sweat, ripe with tears. 

It was done. 

When the magic dissipated, Merlin felt… different. He thought that he wouldn't—couldn't—because he had spoken truly: everything he was was Arthur's. A formal binding shouldn't have changed anything. 

But it had. 

It was a hard feeling to describe. Perhaps it felt as if his internal organs had all been removed and then put back on the opposite side of his body. Everything was still connected together properly; it was just… not right. It was as if his entire life his heart had been thumping on the left side of his chest and suddenly it jumped to the right. The heart of his magic kept beating, but each pulse felt wrong. 

He couldn't understand what had happened. 

Arthur loomed over him, staring down with a strangely blank look on his face. Merlin had just sworn all of his being to Arthur, to his king, to his love. Shouldn't there be some sort of emotion showing?

“Arthur?” he asked, voice tremulous. 

“Use your magic to put out the fire.”

Merlin complied without thought—a flash of his eyes, and it was done. He hadn't even realised he was going to do it. 

What the fuck was that?

“Good,” Arthur said dismissively, as if nothing strange were happening. “Do not speak. Get up and get dressed to leave. Do it quickly. Now.”

And Merlin did. He was a passenger in his body, going along for the ride while someone else sat in the driver's seat. 

The heat that had warmed him thoroughly when he'd summoned his magic had dissipated. He was still in his wet clothes from when he'd sat in the snow—when he had watched his father condemn him and die. His limbs were shaking, with cold, with fear, with sorrow, with exhaustion. 

It wasn't a terrible thing, to get dressed. As he stripped off his wet clothes, the cold air rushed in, frigid against damp skin. He should be happy to don trousers and a jumper… But he was not. What the hell was going on? Why would Arthur abuse his power like this?

Merlin tried to stop moving but couldn't. He did as he had been told. When he had bound his magic to Arthur, he had thought nothing would actually change between them. It would be a testament of Merlin's devotion, but that was all. Arthur would continue to command like the royal prat he was, and Merlin would continue to selectively follow orders. Wasn't that how they had been? Unless he was horribly confused? But in this he thought he remembered truly. 

He had assumed an order from Arthur would still be optional except in case of dire circumstances where Arthur enforced his will… which Arthur would only do for the good of others. 

Was he enforcing his will now? 

Did he trust Merlin so very little? Had Merlin screwed things up so very badly by hiding his magic? 

Merlin still had no footwear. He supposed his trainers were under the bed, but there was no way in hell he was going to reach under there again. It was just—wrong. He didn't remember why exactly, but he just… couldn't. 

He hurried back to the front room. Arthur was… on a mobile phone? Since when did newly-returned-from-the-dead kings carry phones? 

“Yes, it's done,” Arthur said, voice matter-of-fact, nothing like it had been fifteen minutes ago. He was quiet, listening to a tinny voice. Then he said, “Yes, we're ready to be picked up…. See you in twenty.”

Merlin tried to ask what that was all about, but his mouth refused. Instead he stared as Arthur pulled Merlin's boots out from underneath the armchair and threw them at his head. Merlin put them on while Arthur packed the clothing and armour he had worn the night he had arrived, walking across the frozen lake. 

That seemed so very long ago now. 

“Come,” Arthur said, not looking at him. Arthur wore Merlin's coat, dirty and wrinkled as it was, so Merlin went without, arms hugging his torso in an attempt to trap the warmth inside his jumper. They followed a path of trampled snow to the road. An engine rumbled, approaching down the snowy road. When the SUV arrived, it reminded Merlin of the one that had driven by the night Arthur had arrived. The one that had been lost. Were they lost again?

It stopped in front of them and, with one look from Arthur, Merlin knew to climb into the back seat. Arthur dumped his armour in the boot and then sat up front next to someone Merlin had never seen before. He might have examined the man more closely if it hadn't been for the knight that appeared on the bench next to him. When Merlin noticed the man, his hand stung as if burnt. It faded quickly, and Merlin was too interested in the man to wonder why. 

The knight wore the same uniform that Arthur had worn when he had returned, but his hair was dark and his skin olive-toned. Merlin knew he should know his name, that he once knew this man; but when he thought about people he has once known, everything was like a fog… with only Arthur standing clear among the misty swirls. 

The man that he should know—but didn't—stared at him, eyebrows knit together, nose wrinkled, mouth in a thin, tense line. 

“I died so that you might live. I died so that you would help bring about the golden age. I died for you, and what good did it do?”

The vision spoke truly. This man had died for Merlin. And of course it hadn't been worth it. 

“I sacrificed myself to save the world from darkness. I sacrificed myself so that Arthur might live. I sacrificed myself so that Morgana would be defeated. And now look at what you will do!

“From this day forward, I disown you. From this day forth, I do not know you…”

The man dissolved into nothingness.No one else in the vehicle seemed to have noticed anything unusual. Merlin's eyes prickled; he quickly rubbed at them and turned to look out the window. Better that than let anybody see him cry. 

He didn't recognise the landscape at all. They were nowhere near the lake. How could that be? Hadn't they just begun driving? How long had he been staring at that man?

Occasionally the men in the front spoke to each other, but only briefly. They seemed neither friendly nor interested in passing the time in anything other than brooding silence. 

What had the vision meant… about what Merlin would do? The vision… certainly couldn't mean anything by it. What could it know of the future? 

_What did it know?_

Fear trickled in slowly, entering through his suddenly dry mouth and working its way down the esophagus to his stomach, which roiled with growing nausea. From there it spread through his blood stream, charging his muscles with tension. Those muscles screamed at him to move, to run or kick or fight, anything to get away from whatever it was that the vision had known. 

He couldn't, of course. Arthur willed him to sit still and silent. So that is what he did, despite how painfully hard his muscles became. He tried to calm himself watching the scenery. The flatlands were mostly empty, save for the occasional farmhouse sticking out of the snow; the more distant mountains seemed to huddle together as if for warmth. Night fell, and the only light came from the SUV’s headlamps as they slowly traversed the icy roads. 

The uncertainty turned to stress, which was exhausting. As time passed and nothing changed, he calmed down enough to drift to sleep. 

He woke when the SUV stopped. They were parked inside a covered garage that could fit a dozen cars. Florescent lights glowed brightly enough to see by but not enough to be welcoming. The walls were finished and painted white. Besides several dark-coloured cars and another SUV, the garage was empty. 

Merlin got out because Arthur wanted him to. Words were unnecessary. Two sides of the same coin… hadn't that been said about the two of them once? And that's what this was: Arthur the head, and Merlin the tail following behind. 

Clumps of melting, muddy snow fell off the vehicle when the doors slammed shut. The air was cold, though not so frigid as outside. An automatic garage door was shutting as he got out, but all he could see through the diminishing opening was darkness. No clues as to where they might be or what they would do there. 

The garage contained several exits. One was an elaborate wooden double door; the others were plain. They used a plain entrance that led into a long hallway with many black doors, all of them shut. Halfway down, the SUV’s driver pulled out keys and unlocked a door. Arthur—still wearing Merlin's brown trenchcoat—jerked his head towards the dark room, and Merlin walked inside. The door closed, and the sound of the key clicked in the lock. Footsteps faded away into silence. Merlin was alone in the darkness.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued thanks to ObsidianSerpent for the art in this chapter. 
> 
> All spells (and some of the dialog) are from the show. 
> 
> See end notes for spoilery warnings. (All the things being warned for occurred in canon, but then canon probably could have used some warnings at times!)

Something warm flared up inside Merlin's chest. His magic nudged at him, almost as if trying to speak. Merlin imagined it saying, “Light, you idiot,” in that mocking tone of voice that Arthur had reserved just for him. But now Arthur had no need to say anything. He barely had to think before Merlin would jump into action.

“ _Leoht_ ,” Merlin whispered, and a blue ball of light illuminated the space. It was just a simple bedroom: bed against the wall, a nightstand with a lamp, a chair. There was a door that led to a tiny loo. The bedspread, carpet, and curtains were all thin, shabby, and brown.

He flicked on the lamp switch, let his magic light extinguish, and pushed the curtains to reveal the window. Double-paned, frost-free… and covered with metal bars on the outside. Not like it mattered. He wouldn't be going anywhere unless Arthur willed it.

The view outside was dimly revealed by light escaping the building. A flat expanse of snow glowed a pale peach colour. Occasional dark masses—probably trees—interrupted the sheet of white. There was nothing else to see in the inky night.

He stood and stared, forgetting for a moment where he was. Instead he remembered the need to watch, watch, always watch; he was waiting, waiting, always waiting. Waiting for something important, waiting for something he couldn't miss.

It struck him as odd when the window didn't frost over as his normally did. He reflexively knew how long he could wait before wiping the panes clear. But when he reached for the cloth, it wasn't there. Nor was there ice on the window. Oh yes, that's right. He was not home. He didn't have to wait anymore. Arthur—his beloved Arthur—was here at last.

Yawning, he closed the curtains and turned to the bed. Someone was sitting on it, rusted crown perched on his head. Merlin's hand stung like fire, and he looked at it. The place he had touched the goo under his bed (and didn't he have a memory of that very goo, causing trouble lifetimes ago?) was stained black, and the veins leading away were darkened all the way to his elbow.

Had he been poisoned?

“I should have executed you the day I met you, _sorcerer_ …” The man hissed this word like it was the vilest of insults. “How else could a clumsy oaf like you have reacted faster than my son? You betrayed him from the beginning. And now you will kill him. I hope my daughter slices you open and hangs you by your entrails.”

Merlun tried to protest, but no words came out. Arthur still wouldn't permit him to speak. He dearly wanted to object: he wouldn't kill Arthur; he was completely devoted to him. Besides, it's not like he could anyway, unless Arthur willed him to do it. And why the hell would he do that?

“I hope the dogs eat your flesh and piss on your bones,” the man said. Then he vanished.

The vision had been so real. It had spoken out loud with such vehemence that Merlin was surprised it hadn't physically attacked him—though his hand and arm hurt so much it felt as if _something_ had attacked him. He went into the loo, wet the hand towel, and placed it over his blackened skin, trying to alleviate the burn. Thankfully, the cold of the water seemed to help, and the pain ebbed away to a dull throbbing.

He didn't want to lie on the bed where the vision had been, so he pulled off the ugly brown cover and curled up with it on the floor. His hand and arm occasionally flared with pain as he huddled miserably under the blanket. He thought he should be asking more questions about what was happening, but he was so confused and achy and tired that he just longed to rest. Despite his exhaustion, it took a long, long time to fall asleep.

***

Arthur stood in front of him, face blank and lifeless. Hadn't this man once been full of life? Or was that just another of Merlin's faulty memories?

“I sometimes wonder if you know who I am,” Arthur asked, voice devoid of emotion.

“Oh, I know who you are,” Merlin responded, but even as he said it, he doubted.

“Good.”

Merlin knew the lines to this play; he knew what came next. It was his turn to say, “You're a prat. And a royal one.” But he couldn't get the words out.

Arthur seemed amused by his struggle. “Are you ever going to change, Merlin?”

The question was disingenuous. They both knew that he had. Merlin wasn't quite sure how or why, but he knew one thing: he had not always been this way.

“No, you'd get bored. But promise me this, if you get another servant, don't get a bootlicker.”

Even as he said it, Merlin grimaced and puckered as if eating a lemon. What was he now, if not the bootlicker he had once so despised? If Arthur willed it, Merlin would drop to his knees and clean Arthur's footwear with his tongue. It didn't seem right, somehow. Shouldn't Arthur be bored with Merlin playing the subservient role so admirably?

Merlin wasn't the only one who had changed.

“If this is you trying to leave your job...” No, no, of course not. Merlin wouldn't leave. Or was it that he couldn't leave? It didn't matter though, because everything he was was for Arthur. At least he knew that much: he was meant to serve Arthur.

“No. I'm happy to be your servant. Till the day I die.”

And this was the one true thing that he could cling to, through all the chaos, all the confusion, all the pain. Merlin was Arthur's servant. Always.

“And what about when _I_ die?”

Merlin recoiled from the question. This was not how the script went.

“You won't die. I won't let you.”

Arthur laughed, loud and mocking. “So determined. And yet you failed me, Merlin. You let me die. You are no servant of mine!”

Merlin woke, heart pounding, sweat sticking to his face, an image of Arthur, bloodied and dying, in his mind.

No, no, no, he would not fail Arthur again. He would not let him die. This time Merlin could be trusted. This time he would not let his king down. He couldn't live without Arthur; he would tear apart the fabric of time if anything happened to him ever again, rearrange it all until Arthur was alive and happy once more.

Several days passed. Merlin was left alone with dreams and visions. The visions spoke out loud now, and his arm throbbed constantly where the inky blackness spread through his veins ever closer to his heart. One vision—a woman with long dark hair—came more often than the others. She seemed familiar, but when he searched his memory, all he could focus on was Arthur.

“Not so high and mighty now, are you, Emrys? And you were to be my doom. Perhaps once, but now it's my time to return the favour.”

He turned away from her, not understanding, and looked out the window. The visions would normally leave after they'd had their say. Now that it was daylight, he could see the landscape: great expanses of drifted snow, occasional trees, and a frozen lake. Snow had accumulated over the ice, as it had at his lake. But this was definitely not his lake—the island was different. Instead of a single tower, the stone buildings grew upwards like a castle. They seemed familiar, just as the visions did, though they were all lost in the cobwebs of his mind.

He couldn't help but stare at it, waiting, waiting, always waiting for someone to come. Waiting—for Arthur.

The vision of the woman returned later… or had she ever left?

“I must admit, Emrys… this isn't quite as satisfying as it would be if you weren't so broken… Perhaps Niviane’s enchantments worked a little too well. Or maybe you are just so weak that all it took was a little mandrake to destroy you."

Merlin didn't respond. This vision was crazier than the rest… it thought he was someone else.

“No matter. You don't have to be sane to play your part. And I shall enjoy it anyway.”

***

It was easy to fall into a rhythm: sleep on the floor curled up in the ratty blanket every night; stare out the window waiting every day. Ignore the visions; they weren't real—they couldn't be. They taunted him about killing Arthur, and _never_ would he let that happen.

Daylight was fleeting. It was the darkest time of winter, and almost as soon as the sun rose it was setting again, travelling a low arc across the southern sky. Most days clouds and fog pressed in, leaving everything a shade of washed out grey.

All the while Merlin kept waiting.

He waited and waited—until the day Arthur and the dark-haired lady came together.

“It's time,” she said. “The darkest hour of the longest night is nearly upon us. Now we shall have some fun.”

They walked out of the room and back to the garage. Arthur drove them the short distance to the shore of the lake. Looking behind him, Merlin could see that they had come from an immense manor house, elegant and surreal standing amidst the snow in the middle of nowhere. Merlin’s cottage had been small, ramshackle—but welcoming. Nothing like this giant structure, which was forbidding even as it impressed.

They got out of the car at the edge of the lake and began a slow, arduous walk to the island. The ice was covered with snow, and the combination of slippery and heavy made it difficult to walk. His companions both were dressed warmly, hats, coats, scarves, gloves. Merlin had only his jumper.

But on he trudged. Because Arthur willed it.

The stone ruins loomed up against the grey sky, ever closer. If they had once formed a castle, it was all a shambles now. No snow covered the isle; when they finally stepped off the ice onto firm land, Merlin could feel why. The whole island was saturated with magic, a bubble of power that pulled it out of time. Merlin felt the magic cling to him as he walked across the stone paths, half welcoming, half threatening. This place felt wild, like a thunderstorm, but twisted, as if the thunderheads would only rain blood.

They arrived in a courtyard surrounded by arches and stone pillars. The woman had lit a ball of magical light that floated ahead of them and settled over a large slab of stone. An altar. A fucking altar. When did anything good ever come from an altar?

The woman stopped before reaching the slab. “You know what to do,” she said, teeth shining blue as they reflected the orb of light.

Arthur took Merlin by both hands. He had removed his gloves once they had arrived on the island; his skin felt even icier than Merlin's, which had been painfully frozen from lack of proper clothing. He looked Merlin straight in the eyes as he spoke.

“I, Arthur Pendragon, hereby declare my sister, Morgana Pendragon, as my sole heir and successor. I bequeath unto her all my possessions and inheritances. All oaths sworn to me will pass to her. This I swear and seal with magic, on this Yule, the darkest day, the death song of the year.”

Arthur paused and squeezed Merlin's hands tightly, icy claws digging through his skin and into his soul.

“Merlin. You will seal my vow with your magic. After my death, you will transfer your loyalty and obedience to my sister, for the good of all Albion. The country has fallen into darkness, but she is destined to bring back the old ways. She will guide Albion into a new age, and you will be there to serve her as you would me. Seal it. Now.”

The magic was ripped from Merlin's chest even before his brain could process what Arthur was saying. It shimmered visibly, a golden mist that poured from Merlin and encased Arthur. It soaked into his skin and disappeared from view.

It was done. The magic would ensure Arthur's command was carried out, should he die.

He couldn't die—he couldn't! Merlin had just found him. After so many years, so many centuries… Arthur was here. And Merlin wouldn't let him go. He fell to the ground, panting for breath, but his eyes would not stop staring at Arthur. As long as Merlin could see him, Arthur would be okay. Still there, still with Merlin, not dead, not gone away leaving Merlin alone in that dark, ugly hell.

The woman—Morgana, Arthur had called her, though Merlin himself hadn't remembered Arthur even having a sister—chuckled. “Well done, boys, well done. And soon it will be the darkest hour… Just a little longer, and the world will be made anew.”

They waited, unmoving. The sky was starless. Clouds would normally reflect a certain amount of ambient light from cities, even if the city were far away; snowy nights would increase this effect, sometimes lighting up a landscape like it was day. But not here. Not in this magical bubble. They were tethered to the physical world, but not of it; they were connected to time, but not in it. Merlin could feel a multitude of magical strands anchoring this isle to his reality… and to so many others.

Occasional sounds pierced the still of the night—animal calls, but not of any creature native to this world.

A woman came and stood in front of him. Long, blond hair, face heavily scarred, lips twisted, eyes accusing. “You did this to me… you killed me… and now you will suffer. Oh, how you will suffer…”

She faded away. No one else seemed to have noticed her presence. Merlin's entire arm and shoulder throbbed painfully in time with his heartbeat.

He tried to calm himself by examining the courtyard. It was all stone, unliving, ancient. The magical orb leant it a slightly blue tinge… like the colour of lips on a person gone too long without oxygen. Although there was no snow, the island was still bare with winter. The trees on the shore were naught more than bundles of sticks shivering together in the cold.

But as Merlin gazed at this place, attempting to calm himself, he noticed a few dark leaves peeking out from the cracks of the weathered stone. It was difficult to see in the pale light, but once he noticed it, he could see more of the spiky leaves. Holly, he thought dimly. For protection. Green even in the dead of winter. Wasn't the Holly King supposedly supplanted on Yule? To make way for the light?

If the darkest hour was before the dawn, things couldn't be nearly as grim as they felt. Right?

A screech echoed around the stone courtyard, startling Merlin out of his brooding. It took him a moment to realise that it was an owl, just an owl. Another screech followed the first, and then there was the whirring of wings beating against the air. A dark shape swooped low over the altar and then wheeled off into the darkness.

As if it had been a signal, the dark-haired woman stalked over to the altar. She pulled out a dagger and set it on the weathered stone. “Arthur. My dear brother. It's time.”

Arthur removed his—Merlin's—coat and dropped it to the ground. He strode towards the woman with powerful movements, eager to comply with whatever she wished him to do. Eager the way Merlin was eager to serve Arthur, despite the guilt and failure that haunted their relationship. Maybe especially because of it—he had to prove his loyalty to Arthur, prove his goodness, prove that everything that was Merlin's was for Arthur.

Perhaps if he could do that… he might some day be able to wash away the guilt and the failure. The misery and the despair.

Arthur stood in front of the woman, and she kissed him on each cheek. Then he climbed onto the altar and lay down, feet together, arms held stiffly at his sides, like a corpse on a table.

What was this? What was he doing? The knife lay next to Arthur's head, glinting in the light of the orb. All around them, the ruined castle rose up into nothingness, arches and columns that once proclaimed grandeur but now whispered only of decay and despair.

Merlin was shaking, again, more violently than before. Nothing about this was right; nothing good could come from this. He wanted to jump to his feet, to grab Arthur and flee, escape from this unfathomable woman, run from the wrongness of this isle.

But Arthur did not will it.

“Come, Emrys,” the woman said, and the name felt like dirt between the teeth. “Now is the time to serve your people as you should have all those centuries ago. Now is the time to make amends for all the evils that you spread. Come.”

Merlin could not remember Emrys… but Arthur's will overwhelmed his senses, and he found himself rising and proceeding to the altar regardless.

“Emrys,” Morgana said. “Your magic is the most powerful that has been or ever will be. It is strong enough to rend the universe. When you sacrifice the soul of the Once and Future King, it will rip open the Veil so widely that it shall never close again. Magic will flow from the other world and return to this barren land. Sorcerers will be revered, and we will return to the old ways. The dochraid foretold this moment; she traded her soul for mine, so that I could complete my destiny.”

She lifted the dagger from the altar and pressed it into Merlin's hand. He had no idea what most of her speech had meant, but he understood the meaning of “sacrifice” well enough when there was a knife involved.

He refused to grab the hilt, and the weapon dropped to the stone floor with a loud clang.

“I can't do this,” he said through gritted teeth. The effort to speak was overwhelming, but he would not give in. He would not do what she told him to do.

Never would he kill Arthur.

Never.

“Dear Brother, your hound has slipped his leash.”

Merlin had the urge to kick her—perhaps followed by vaporising—but he couldn't budge. Arthur had asserted his will.

Morgana laughed when she saw Merlin struggling to move. She came over and stroked at his hair, petting him. “Aw, see, the wittle doggy can be a good wittle pet. We'll have such fun, you and I. But first, there is work to do.” She pulled away from Merlin and turned to the altar. “Brother. Command him. It is time.”

Arthur didn't move his head to look at Merlin, just spoke straight up into the night air. “Merlin. You will do as my sister commands you to do. You will say the proper spells, you will kill me, and you will serve my heir, Morgana Pendragon, all the rest of your days.”

Tears sprung from Merlin's eyes. He had known what the woman had wanted from him, but to hear it said so matter-of-factly from Arthur's mouth… How could Arthur just lie there and order Merlin to kill him as easily as if he were telling him to polish boots? How could Arthur accept death, no matter what his sister asked of him?

Merlin had just found Arthur, after so many long and agonising years. He would _not_ lose him again. And he certainly wouldn't be the one to kill him.

“Repeat after me. _Eala leofu freá'wine þæm gastum befæste ic þe._ ”

Merlin felt the magic rise within him. He felt the iron will of Arthur's command pressing on him to say the words, to do as told. But no, no, no, he wouldn't, he couldn't. NO!

Arthur pushed harder, but Merlin fought back, clawing at every trace of Arthur's presence in his mind and throwing it out, out of his head, out of his body. He _would not_ do this.

Arthur turned his head then to look at him. “Come here, Merlin.” Merlin went, no energy left to fight a reasonable command. Arthur sat up, stretched his arms out to grab Merlin, and pulled him into a hug.

“I know this is hard for you. It is the only way. What you are about to do will affect everyone, even you. But most importantly, it will bring our enemies to their knees. You must be strong, remember that.”

Enemies? What enemies? But Merlin couldn't consider it for long because Arthur kissed him, deeply, passionately, kissed him as if it were the last one he would ever experience.

Merlin returned it, desperate for reassurance that despite it all, Arthur loved him. Merlin had betrayed Arthur, he had failed to save him, he had lied and cheated and killed… But to know that despite all that, Arthur loved him…

He couldn't stop crying. The tears streamed from his eyes and turned the kiss salty. Arthur pulled out of it and whispered to Merlin, “You know I love you. Now do as I command.”

After that, his ability to fight was completely destroyed. Arthur commanded him, Arthur pressed his will onto him, Arthur _loved_ him. And Merlin couldn't deny him anything.

“Say the spell, Merlin.”

And he did. He had no resistance left. He always had been Arthur's to command.

“ _Eala leofu freá'wine þæm gastum befæste ic þe_ ,” he chanted. The magic welled up in his chest, liquid fire that would scald him from the inside out.

Morgana continued, “ _Alynne þa þeostre þe inne onwunaþ; onginn dwolma_!” and Merlin chanted the words right after.

“Kill him!” she said. “Kill him now!”

He lifted the dagger—and froze. No, no, no, he couldn't, he wouldn't…

Arthur’s gaze pierced through Merlin's eyes and into his soul. “I love you. Now do it!”

Arthur's will was overwhelming. There was no way Merlin could deny him.

He stabbed the dagger straight through Arthur's heart.

 

***

Merlin was blown backwards off his feet. He landed hard against the stone. Cold sank through him, a terrible contrast to the heat of the magic. It made the collision all the more painful, as his bones were so frozen they could easily shatter.

Unearthly screams pierced the night like a dagger. They were distressingly familiar; he had heard them before, in another lifetime—back in a day where he had not just murdered the man who made up the fabric of his existence.

The screams were threatening and grief-stricken both, and he wished he could block his ears and shut them out. But he was frozen: from cold, from heartache, from injury or magic—he couldn't tell. All he knew was pain, fear, and icy despair.

An ancient woman appeared before him, wrinkled, bloated, face drooping with age—or maybe grief. “Emrys…” she whispered. “Emrys…”

It took great effort, but Merlin forced himself to speak. “Why do you call me that?”

She smiled at him, though it was laden with sadness. “It is your name. The witch has clouded your mind, stolen your true self. But it is true: the darkest hour is before the dawn. And it will be dark, so very terrible. But in the end, you are still her destiny; you are still her doom.”

Merlin stared, but had no comprehension of the things she said.

“Do not give up, Emrys. Do not give up on love; do not give up on destiny. Someday, he will find you…”

She faded away. As she left he heard the echo of a baby screaming. It seemed imperative that he find the child, keep it from harm… but he was frozen and fading and drifted off into the darkness.

He dreamed of a golden-haired infant, clutched to the bosom of his dead mother. She was lying underneath a great oak tree, leafless, lifeless. The baby cried ceaselessly for his lost mother. Merlin longed to scoop him up into his arms, but the dream faded away into dust.

When he woke, the world was transformed.

Arthur lay on the altar, utterly lifeless, bloody where the dagger yet protruded from his chest. Merlin's heart clenched at the sight.

The dark-haired woman lay crumpled on the stones as if dead. But Merlin could still sense living magic pulse within her.

Beyond the altar was the Veil, shimmering with starlight, ebbing and flowing with the rhythms of nature. A gaping fissure sliced through the ethereal fabric, revealing a blackness so intense it siphoned away the very memory of light.

From this fissure fountained a great throng of spirits, some screaming, some wailing, some quiet as death, bare wisps of energy fleeing into the mortal world.

A stream of magic also flowed out from the Otherworld. It was not visible to the human eye, but Merlin could feel it escape, wild, dangerous, free. Released into a world that had considered it nothing more than a child's tale. But soon the mortals would find that fairy tale turn into a horror story.

Merlin stared at the torn Veil for just a moment, considering. He had witnessed it once before, he was certain, but beyond that the details were lost. He returned his attention to Arthur. He was dead, but his soul still lingered in his body. Why would it move on to the afterlife when the spirit world was currently spilling its guts into this one?

As the magic poured from the veil, it wrapped around him, infusing him with power and the knowledge of how to do it. He might not be able to save the human world, but there was one thing left he could do for his King.

The words came to his mind easily, as if he had used them before. He thought he probably had.

_“Grið fæstne mid þisse tintregian sawle!”_

Hot energy flared within as he felt the spell take hold. It quickly dissipated.

Arthur's body inhaled sharply. He breathed again and opened his eyes. Merlin would not be fooled, though. This couldn't be real. Arthur was dead: Merlin had killed him.

“I… have always loved you, Merlin,” he murmured. “Always.”

His eyelids fluttered shut, and he fell still.

A pale fog rose from Arthur's body and hovered over his chest. Merlin expected it to soar off with the other spirits. Instead, the foggy essence coalesced, brightening as it did, until it formed a single brilliant orb of light floating in the air. It felt like a tiny bit of the heavens had come down to earth to bid Merlin farewell.

 _Be strong_ , it seemed to say. _Don't give up. I'll come back for you._

Then, instead of joining the other spirits, it streaked away across the sky like a shooting star. It journeyed inland, away from the sea, away from this frozen lake with its accursed isle, away from Merlin. The shooting star shone down upon the snow-covered landscape, which reflected its light back up to it, albeit dimly, following off into the unknown.

As Merlin watched it go, he experienced a moment of clarity: he had witnessed the Veil before. And what's more, he remembered how to close it. The Cailleach demanded a life, and Merlin would be happy to give it.

He strode towards the gaping tear, determined. Long ago he had tried to give his life in this very way, but a friend had beat him to it—Lancelot. Merlin hadn't even been capable of sacrificing his own life correctly. But Lancelot hadn't died, had he? How could he have when he'd come back to Camelot, to Merlin? But no, he had not come as himself. That hadn't been the real Lancelot. The real Lancelot would never have tried to steal another man's fiancée. The real Lancelot would never have killed himself.

A sudden tug in his mind spun him around mid-stride. The dark-haired woman stood there, staring at him, contempt writ all over her face.

“Come, Emrys. We have work to do.”

All his thoughts abruptly fled. Memory was pain, and he would not dwell on the past any longer. He was a loyal servant. He would fulfill his vow and forget all the rest.

He got up and followed, hers to command.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains apparent human sacrifice and apparent major character death, though all is not as it seems. There's more manipulative mind control and dubcon kissing, but these all happened in canon too.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're looking for a place to chat with other Merlin fans, [here's a fun place to try.](https://merlin-chat.livejournal.com/488.html)


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